On news Of American Air Strikes

When the Americans come
to fix our broken fingers
we will eat honey by licking
it from our elbows, we will 
fly kites by tying them to 
our toes and blindfold our
lovers with poetry drawn like
hidden string from our mouths. 

When the Americans come
we will sing their anthem,
blow whistles and flutes 
tied to our nostrils just
like the old South American
Indians - we'll play softball
and run free like buffalo on
their plains.

When the Americans come we
will become bookworms, digest
constitutions, devour manifestos
breaking them like warm bread,
on a table replete with philosophy,
we will sail in boats sewn with
threads of ancient  memories that we
pass through the eye of our old
paradise and breathe Sarin immune
to death just like fish in the sea.

Yes my darling, when the Americans
arrive we will become angels in another
world made of light and smoke from 
Zam Zam's holy hearth, we will throw
shoes at the devil and wind our shrouds
into windmill or boat sails one to keep
us on the land as the other takes us 
across the empty quarter of our history. 

When our soil feels American boots
we will take up our roots and walk as
free trees to a new forest, find a place
where water runs like warm hope, where 
fresh milk drips from our restored nation
to suckle us like newborns.

Yes my children when they come we
will dance in the broken streets as mad 
as dervish or freshly turned out ponies
kicking high at deaths fleeing face, 
pointing with our elbows to God's  new 
rain clouds approaching from the sea.